Knights of the Teorsas

It does not do to speak mockingly of erections.

By Drmaxc. Listen to the
Podcast at Steamy
Stories.

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"Men and their erections,"

"Men and their erections," Tacey laughed shrilly,
"if you could harness them you'd solve the energy crisis. Forget the
unpredictability of wind power, their erections rise and fall come sun, come
rain, come snow; if you could only capture the energy of all those millions of
cocks..."

The girls giggled and laughed loudly in their gaggle at the
bar. They had drunk too much and were being disrespectful of men. Jonathan did
not like it, he expected women to speak of such things, the male sexual organ,
in hushed, slightly awed tones: not make silly jokes as if, he paused and took
a breath, a 'Teors' was something to laugh about. He used the Old English
deliberately. To have used a slang term — a 'cock' as the girl had done, a
'willy' or the like would have been wrong. He gripped his glass; something
would need to be done.

Entering the subterranean halls of the Knights of the
Teorsas always gave Jonathan a particular thrill. Unknown to virtually the
whole population of London it was a closely guarded secret, not even disclosed
to the authorities. All they knew about was the insignificant little house in a
backstreet of Covent Garden and it was to that house that the bills for
electricity and the like came. It was an unremarkable house that held a
remarkable secret as it gave access, through its cellar, to the ancient home of
the Knights, the Great Phallocrypt, a network of rooms, halls and passages
built in stone many, many, many years ago.

Jonathan was much more than an initiate, a Raphe, more than
a mere knight but a man who had crossed the Fraenum, the narrow bridge between
the Corpus Cavernosum, the great hall where the knights assembled in their
pomp, and the grand domed meeting hall of the inner circle, the Corona, who
ruled the order. Jonathan was himself a member of the Corona, albeit its most
junior having only been erected to the position a bare month before. He had, by
virtue of his status, access to the Grand Master of the Order, the Bacalum, and
could speak to him as of right.

Dressed in his ceremonial robes, the gold badge of the erect
phallus woven in gold thread into the red material, Jonathan strode through the
Corpus Cavernosum nodding to knights he met but there was no time to pause and
engage in intercourse, he had urgent business, a matter of grave importance to
report to the Bacalum himself. Crossing the bridge of the Fraenum still gave
him a thrill. How many of the knights achieved that? Such a singular honour; he
had been speechless for a full minute when he had been told to prepare himself.
How many would ever wear the third gold band around their teors? How many of
them were ever able to do the thing he was about to do? To raise the great brass
phallic knocker and tap three times on the oaken door of the Lacuna Magna, the
Grand Master's private office?

As always, the Bacalum was dressed in his ancient robes,
beautifully decorated with representations of the ancient Roman god, Priapus,
and with his great red curving penile hat making him look so much taller than
he actually was. A trick long realised by the designers of uniforms; whether
the bearskins of the Guards, the Shako of yesteryear or, indeed, the 'tit' of
the London bobby. Shaking his grey head wisely he listened as Jonathan
described what he had heard only the night before.

"It will not do, it will not do." The Baculum's
words of wisdom enervated Jonathan.

"I seek permission to use, to wield, the Great
Mesmodildo." The words were out; Jonathan had made the request, an act of
considerable presumption in one so junior.

There was a sharp intake of breath, the great phallic hat
jerked upwards, and the penetrating eyes of the Grand Master seemed to bore
right into Jonathan. There was a pause, "It will do."

They sat for a few moments in contemplation. On the walls
were artists' impressions of wonderful buildings not built. Designs by some of
the leading architects of their day for skyscrapers intended to be the tallest
buildings in the world in their time, all unmistakeably phallic, as skyscrapers
are, but not simply because they were structures pointed at the sky but true
erections designed to look like erections, buildings particularly phallic in
design. Unrealised plans by Mies Van de Rohe, Frank Lloyd Wright, Colonel
Seifert and most recently Sir Norman Foster. Designs the Order had not been
able to find sufficient backers to fund; statements to the world not yet
realised; buildings intended to awe and strike a proper respectfulness, an
understanding of their place in the world, in womankind.

The Grand Master rose, drawing his robes around him and
walked to a cupboard; opening its black ebonised door he drew out something
about a foot long and wrapped in a cloth; with both hands he presented it to
Jonathan who, standing, accepted it with a bow. "I shall take the greatest
care, Grand Master."

"Do."

Walking slowly back down the Corpus Cavernosa, Jonathan
mused on the wise words of the Bacalum and upon his mission. Tucked into his
robes was the ancient object — it would not do for the knights to see that
which he had been entrusted or to know it was amongst them.

Shedding his ceremonial robes in the outermost halls, where
the putative knights, the Raphes, met and took instruction in their twin, wonderfully
spherical, meeting rooms, Jonathan ascended back into a rainy, wet London
morning; the ancient object tucked in his duffle bag along with his laptop and
sandwiches. He had his job in the world outside the Order which he must attend
to from 9am to 5pm but then he would commence his mission.

It was one thing to hold the Mesmodildo but another to set
up the opportunity to use it. Jonathan neither knew where Tacey lived nor
worked. He did not actually know her name. His only knowledge was that she
sometimes frequented: rather had at least once frequented, the bar where he had
heard her disrespectful statement. He should have found out more about her at
the time; he realised that now — it would have been better to have gathered
more evidence before reporting to the Bacalum — but he had been so incensed, so
overcome that he had rushed ahead without careful reflection and contemplation.
He would meditate upon it later that evening.

Meditation was important to the Order. Sitting cross-legged
on a mat woven with ancient designs, a knight would sit in contemplation of his
teors until turgidity ensued, that First Wonder of the teors; his thoughts
would roam free as he sought to better understand himself, resolve his problems
and focus on the baseness of his desires whilst seeking to raise the Primo
Cumum, that first flowing of the teors so aptly described as its Second Wonder;
lastly came the conclusion of the ritual, the ultimate goal of the
meditation—the full flowing of the teors, the Ejaculum, a sight wonderful to
behold—when the teors of its own volition would spew forth its seed. Putative
knights worked hard at achieving this, many sitting for hours trying to create
in their heads the necessary images; erotic images necessarily to achieve the
apparently spontaneous Ejaculum.

At first, and Jonathan had to admit he was as one with them,
putative knights would use the Manualum or hand to achieve the necessary final
stimulation; but he had achieved so much more -- the result of hard work and
dedication. Often appropriate texts or images were used, spread before the
knight or novice to assist in his meditation. The Library of the Order, the
Curiosa, contained many volumes and meditational material.

Traditionally the knight would bow his head and orally
accept the bounty of the Ejaculum. Ancient manuscripts, some written in Latin,
some Sanskrit testified to this and the beautiful coloured illustrations showed
no less. A variant much favoured in the modern Corona, and therefore too the
Corpus Cavernosa, was the Art of Felicitation, requiring extensive practice,
much suppleness of the body and, Jonathan admitted, a long teors. He, himself,
had only managed the briefest of Teorsic Kiss at the moment of Ejaculum but the
Bacalum and a few others of the Corona, knights of great experience, could hold
the rounded terminus of their teors orally at the moment of the Third Wonder,
an ideal act permitting the recycling of the seed so not one drop was lost to
the body.

Jonathan was lucky, very lucky. Inevitably he had returned
to the very bar of Tacey's misdeed as the only reference point he had in
relation to her; had sat there nursing a beer and wondering if he would have to
use the power of the Mesmodildo on the very pretty bar girl who had, he
recalled, been there on the previous night. Perhaps she would know about the
disrespectful girl; know who she was and where she lived — and her name. The
entrance of Tacey saved the need. It was a relief to Jonathan — the pretty bar
girl with the large breasts might not have known anything about the
disrespectful girl and left him with no obvious lead in his quest; it also
saved the seed he might well have lost to her in the course of extracting the
information; she was, after all, very pretty and perhaps worthy of the honour.

Tace